


Do You Believe In Magic?

by DoctorFitzy (KittooningMalijah)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 4 + 1 things, Alternate Universe - Magic, F/M, Mentions of Cancer, Not A Happy Ending, agnes is a skeptic, degas cameo, holden is a mage, immortal au, john hannah references galore, kitscliffe day 2k18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 06:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13607622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittooningMalijah/pseuds/DoctorFitzy
Summary: Magic, miracles, fairytales, hokum. Agnes Kitsworth didn’t believe in any of it. Why should she believe in anything that had the potential to save her? She’d spent too long dying to believe that there was any such thing as a cure left in the world.or, four times she almost believed in magic and one time he almost stopped





	Do You Believe In Magic?

                The fact of the matter was, Agnes Kitsworth had never believed in anything like magic or miracles or fairytales. Surely, if any of those things existed and she was meant to know about them, they would have found her, by then. She wouldn’t be struggling just to get through the day with headaches and dizzy spells and blurry vision. She wouldn’t be wondering if she would even wake up in the morning. She wouldn’t have to worry about the tumor in her head at all. At least, that was the way she saw things until she had a boyfriend who showed her otherwise.

                It had never been intentional, finding a man and growing attached and maybe falling just a little too hard. But he was quiet and kind and didn’t care that she sometimes liked to go on about art for maybe just a little too long. He listened when she talked about how much she adored Degas’ work, or how much she hated the kind of person that Picasso was, or how much she wished she could have been around to meet them both. He let her draw with ink on the insides of his arms, even when it smeared onto his jacket, and he didn’t mind if the only canvas she had to work with when she had paint to use was his palm. From the very beginning, he’d shown her that magic, in every sense, was far more real than she’d ever dared to hope it was.

(i)

                The first time they met, she was running late.

                It was a cliché thing, something that was supposed to only happen in movies and bad romance novels – she was late, rushing to get to an appointment on time, hot coffee in one hand and a bagged bagel in the other, the strap of her purse threatening to fall from its perch on her shoulder. And, just like all those horrid scenes in the movies she watched, they both stepped directly into each other’s paths, her wrist hitting his chest, and the lid of her paper coffee cup flew upwards, along with half of the cup’s contents.

                Agnes _expected_ to be hit with a wave of hot water that would leave her smelling bitter and burnt all day, but the anticipated splash of coffee never reached her arm. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting, terrified, gritting her teeth so that she wouldn’t yelp when the pain came, but when more and more time had passed, and she didn’t feel anything at all, she hesitantly opened her eyes again.

                He was wearing a cream-colored jacket, and the shirt under it that wasn’t even buttoned all the way to his neck was a pale shade of pink. Both articles of clothing _should_ have been stained, along with her own peachy blouse, but there wasn’t a single drop in sight. In fact, when she dropped her gaze to investigate further, there wasn’t a mess at all. In his hand was her coffee cup, black lid slightly askew but otherwise very much so _on top_ of the cup, and not at their feet. Presumably, her sugar saturated breakfast of champions was entirely contained within the paper and plastic. “Oh!”

                On instinct, she opened her mouth to apologize for the collision that had _surely_ happened, because she remembered it, and she may have a tumor in her brain, but she was definitely _not_ going crazy, but before another syllable could leave her lips, she was cut off. “That was a close one, wasn’t it? So sorry about that, I should have been keeping a closer eye on where I was going, but no one was hurt, yeah?” His words were accented in a way that was definitively not Australian, and she was ready to ask about it when the cup of coffee was placed back in her hand. Within what felt like seconds, the strange man was gone again, and she was back to where she’d started.

                She was still running late for her appointment, still holding onto hot coffee and a bagel, and still trying to hold her shoulders in a way that would keep her purse in place. The only difference between just then and five minutes before was that she suddenly didn’t know if her refusal to believe in magic was logical or not.

(ii)

                Paris was both everything she’d ever dreamed it would be and the most underwhelming place she thought she might ever visit. She understood the splendor of it, of course, and she did appreciate it for what it was, but it took seeing it to realize that _what it was_ really wasn’t that much. She saw the Eiffel Tower, and she would admit that it was a great architectural feat, but it was still only a landmark, and there were more than enough of those far closer to home that were just as grand. The food was a bit lighter and sweeter, but it was still just food, and the fact that it tasted good didn’t change the fact that it still only sat in her digestive system. It wasn’t like food was the focal point of her entire trip.

                The one remarkable thing she saw, the one ounce of credit that she would allow Paris to receive, was the Degas. From her school days, when Agnes had first heard the artist’s name, up until the moment she sat on the bench and saw it in person for the very first time, it had been her favorite. There were countless sketches of it on the walls of her flat back home, doodles of ballerinas in old notebooks and in the gaps in textbooks. It was the reason she’d visited a country so different and terrifying as France in the first place. She’d risked a flight and a cab drive and complete strangers to see it, and it didn’t disappoint her one bit.

                For the rest of her trip, she spent at least one hour every afternoon looking at it. She studied the finer details from up close, absorbed the full picture from the bench she’d started to claim as her own, spoke in broken French to some of the people kind enough to stop and talk about it with her. It was one of those instances when she saw him again, the mysterious man from a year before who had managed to catch the coffee that had already spilled and hand it back to her without an explanation. She’d barely gotten a glimpse of him on that day, no more than a full minute of face to face time, but she’d lost too many nights of sleep over it to never forget a single detail.

                Less than a sentence into the conversation, she could tell he didn’t understand any of what she was talking about in a way that had nothing to do with a language barrier. He was trying to understand it, trying to participate and add to anything she said, but only so much could slip by her when he’d pronounced _Picasso_ wrong – or maybe that had been the fault of the mysterious accent she still couldn’t place, even after all this time.

                In the end, she found she didn’t mind his company, and it was quite alright with her that he was _trying_ , even if nothing he said exactly matched up with what she’d been saying. It wasn’t until hours later, after she’d complained about Picasso’s personality for twenty minutes, that they even spoke of anything besides the Impressionist Era, and it was him who changed the topic.

                “You know, in all this time, I don’t think I ever quite caught your name.”

                With a somewhat sheepish smile, she held out her hand to him to try to focus on something that _wasn’t_ how warm her face suddenly felt. Apparently, when art was involved, her manners went out the window. “Agnes Kitsworth. And might I be so bold as to ask for yours?”

                The expression his face contorted into was an odd one, the kind that was entirely unreadable and only made her want to ask a million and one questions about what he could possibly be thinking about. “My real name or the one that I’ll answer to?”

                It was an odd question, but she supposed it had to be, to be paired with the expression she was still trying to decipher. “That would be up to you.”

                “Holden. Dr. Holden Radcliffe.”

                “And which name would that one be, Dr. Radcliffe?”

                “I don’t think it so much matters, Ms. Kitsworth.”

                He did that thing again, the one where he seemed to disappear before she could ask about anything he said or did, and she was once again alone on the bench, staring at the Degas. Not for the first time during her trip, it occurred to her than things created by people long dead weren’t easier to understand, they were just the only things stationary for long enough to even try.

(iii)

                Paris wasn’t the last time she ran into him, during her travels, but it was the only time she spoke to him for more than a few minutes before she had to find a place to stop and _settle_. According to the doctors she’d started visiting around the world – specialists, well known for their work centered around the human brain – she was supposed to be taking it easy, which was difficult to do when everything on her bucket list was rather far from her home in the southern half of the world. Europe was too vast and rich with culture and history for her to ever really plan on living so far away from it again.

                That was how she’d ended up in Spain, grounded, for all intents and purposes, and settled into one of the chairs at a tiny café. When she peered over her menu, he was there, the man who called himself Holden but still refused to tell her whether or not it was the name given to him at birth. She had a theory that it wasn’t, that it was one he’d chosen for himself instead, but she hadn’t found the opportunity to bring it up in all the times they’d met up.

                “What were you thinking of ordering for lunch, Ms. Kitsworth? I hear the sandwiches here are actually quite good, I think that’s something I’ll try.”

                A smile pulled at Agnes’ lips at the sound of his voice, the accent that she was still wondering about but didn’t want to bring up directly making her feel lighter. They weren’t friends, far from it, but there was something about having him near, no matter where she was in the world or how long it had been since they’d last caught each other’s eye, that made her feel safe. An irrational part of her wanted to believe in magic more and more after each short conversation they had, wanted to believe that maybe there was something about _him_ that could save her, but she also understood that reality didn’t work like that. In reality, there was no such thing as magic or miracles or fairytales, and the man who was always somehow clean in his khaki and cream clothing certainly wasn’t the embodiment of any of it. And he didn’t hang around her because he was going to bring about some cure that would save her life from a tumor he couldn’t possibly know existed. She lived too far removed from her romance novels to ever genuinely believe something as outlandish as that.

                Instead of bringing up any of those thoughts – the childish ones, the hopeful ones, the ones that were spurred only by fear – she simply turned her gaze back to the menu in front of her and spoke evenly. “I was thinking maybe something lighter. I only want a drink – something cold, with how warm it’s been since I got here – but I’d be more than willing to try a bit of whatever sandwich you order.”

                His smile at the words made it oh so easy for her to relax into her seat while she set the menu down on the surface of the small table, tilting her head and staring over at him. There was very little difference besides the clothes on his back between one time she saw him and the next, but she’d seen this particular ensemble before – the cream jacket, the pink shirt. It was the same thing he’d been wearing the first time they’d met, when he impossibly caught her coffee, and something about it made her more curious than normal, not that she said anything while he ordered his lunch and what definitely sounded like something that contained alcohol despite the hour. She never even got the chance to speak, herself, before the waiter stepped away from the table again.

                “I see that look, don’t worry about it.” The man who may or may not be named Holden Radcliffe shook his head at her, his smile still in place even when the look in his eyes shifted to something softer. She couldn’t figure out what it meant, opening her mouth to ask when he cut her off. “Do you want to see a magic trick?”

                On instinct, Agnes let out a scoff at the words, shaking her head at the mere mention of something so ridiculous. “If you mean something like slight of hand, I think it takes all of the _magic_ out of the experience when I already know how every one of those tricks is done.”

                He laughed, a big, hearty, _real_ laugh, and it made her feel warm from her head down to her toes. It was so rare that she saw him show any signs of being truly happy, and maybe that was why she didn’t dare to ask about his past – it must be a terribly painful one if they’d known each other for as long as they had, and this was the first of his laughs that she’d ever heard. “No, Ms. Kitsworth, not slight of hand. I want to show you _real_ magic. The kind most people don’t believe in.”

                At that, she leaned forward and narrowed her eyes at him curiously. As far as she was aware, she hadn’t given any hint of evidence that she might be different from the _most people_ he was referring to. To her, magic was a solution to her problems that she didn’t have access to – it was the only cure imaginable for an incurable disease, and if she started to believe in it, it would only lead to disappointment. “Well, Dr. Radcliffe, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I actually am _most people_ , in this case. I don’t believe in fairytales and hokum.” The look in his eyes made her pause, just for a moment, before she spoke up again. “But you’re more than welcome to show me a magic trick, if you’d like.”

                His smile was a bit smaller, then, but still present, and he held out a hand toward her while he shook his head. She was hesitant, but let him take her hand after a moment, hyper aware of each and every touch from his fingers against her skin. He didn’t saw a word, and she was half convinced that she was imagining the glow around their connected fingers until he pulled away. That shade of blue would be burned into her memory, that was for sure, even if it wasn’t real at all.

                It took a few moments to realize what had happened, to actually notice the little streaks of green and blue on her nails, to process the fact that there was no scientific explanation for such a thing. In yet another situation in her life, magic was the _only_ explanation, the only solution to whatever the universe had thrown at her, but it didn’t make any _sense_. After a moment, she blinked and took a breath before inspecting her nails slowly. There was no polish on them, it was like the nails themselves had just… _changed color_. It didn’t make any sense, no matter how long she stared, and when she finally could speak, she was certain the confusion was evident in her voice. “How the hell did you do that?”

                He laughed again, a smaller one, quieter, but it still made her feel all warm inside. “I told you – _it’s a magic trick_. I can show you plenty of others, if you’d like.” It was a simple offer, and a harmless one, but she was still hesitant. It was still something that couldn’t be possible.

                Instead of giving a direct answer, she moved her entire chair so that she could sit closer to him, without the table between them, and reached out for his hand again while fishing in her purse. “If you get to do that, then I get to do _this_.” Without giving him the chance to ask what she was doing, Agnes took out a black pen and immediately set to work at a doodle on the inside of his wrist. It was quick, and a little sloppy, but by the time she was done, she was happy with it. The little black star on his arm was surrounded by swirls and pinpricks of black dots and there were lines that expanded up onto the heel of his hand. “ _There_. Now _that’s_ magic.”

(iv)

                After their lunch, if it could even be called such a thing when he had a sandwich and she had a drink, he started to spend less time running into her in chance places and more time sitting at the table in her apartment. She was more than happy to make drinks for them or let him watch while she worked on whatever piece she was attempting to recreate – she had about twenty more sketches of ballerinas somewhere in the apartment, and he’d been there to witness her process for most of them. On one occasion, she was preparing to use paint for one of her projects but ended up sitting next to him on the couch instead of poising in front of the canvas across the living room.

                Agnes still had her brush and her paints, but it wasn’t canvas she was painting on while she held his hand still against her leg, happily going on about the piece she was trying to imitate across the curves of his palm. “It took over a year to paint, you know? But I think it was worth it. The use of color to convey the lighting – it’s _brilliant_ , isn’t it?”

                She could see the soft expression on his face from the corner of her eye, but she wasn’t self-conscious about it. She didn’t mind the gazing, really, or the fact that he seemed to see right through her headaches, sometimes. Even the idea of magic didn’t bother her much anymore. Most nights, he actually stayed with her instead of disappearing the way he used to, using whatever impossible tricks he had up his sleeve to show her the stars without ever having to go to the window. It was pleasant, and she was happy, and she didn’t even think about the tumor that was killing her, most days.

                “Are you ever going to tell me your real name?”

                He seemed caught off guard by the question, a frown pulling at the smile that had been in place for hours while the paint on his hand dried. For a long moment, he was quiet, his gaze still fixed on her until he made himself speak up, if only to appease her. “Is Holden too pretentious for you? I can tell you some of the other ones I’ve used.”

                She let out a laugh at his words, shaking her head and moving to sit up on her knees. It wasn’t a real answer, they both knew that, but she wasn’t going to push if he didn’t want to share – his life was his own, and what name he wanted to use was just as much his decision as keeping her tumor a secret was hers. If he didn’t want to tell her, he didn’t have to, but if he was _offering_ …

                “You have used other names, then?”

                His smile returned almost immediately while he shook his head, keeping his hand still on her lap so that he wouldn’t ruin the work of art she’d put there. “I’ve been around for quiet a while, and I’ve had to change things up. So, yes, Ms. Kitsworth, I have used other names. Actually, if you like Holden, you would have liked Jon, too, I think. Jonathan actually remembered some of his history – he probably would have been able to carry a conversation with you about art without faking his way through it.” She didn’t try to understand what it all meant when he talked about all the names of his past, or the impossible things he described, she just listened, and did her best to remember.

                _Jon_ was money hungry but knew his history. He didn’t appreciate the art for what it was, but for the wealth it might bring him later in life. It was understandable, even if she didn’t entirely agree with his outlook.

                _James_ was a businessman. A lot of his selves had this thing about money, about wanting it. It was never a need, he said that frequently. He didn’t _need_ the money to survive, but he wanted it, just to have it.

                _Richard_ had been an author, he’d won awards, and she made a mental note to do some research on it later, maybe read his books. It was another situation where he wanted money, wanted to let it build up and grow – for the future, he’d said, whatever that meant.

                _Jack_ was one of the odd ones. He was a detective who couldn’t care less about money and cared even less about justice. It was a job he’d taken just to fill time for a few years, to fill in the time before he could move on again.

                _John_ was an actor. His story was the simplest, somehow. That was one of the lives he’d lived that allowed him to travel, but he’d moved on after some American television show had killed off his character not once but _twice_ over the course of a single year.

                _Leo_ was when he’d gone back to doing things for money again, a con artist, a trickster of a man. For some odd reason, that wasn’t what she’d chosen to focus on. The way he’d spoken about it, it was a choice he’d made, and he didn’t regret it. It was a past that belonged to him and she wasn’t going to try to make him change it.

                That wasn’t who he was anymore. He was _Holden_ , the magic man she’d started falling for. He was a scientist and a wizard, and he had no reason to stay with her other than the fact that he wanted to. His past and her tumor didn’t matter at all, and that was just how she wanted things to stay, for as long as possible. Besides, his stories just made it a little easier to imagine a future with him – with all of the names he’d used before knowing her, it wouldn’t be at all difficult to come up with one they might like if the time ever came.

(+i)

                In the end, they did have a future. Over a decade was spent by each other’s sides, and the man who called himself Holden Radcliffe was delighted with every second of it. He wasn’t running around trying to make a life for himself or hoarding money for some future he may never understand, he was _living_ the very best possible ending every second of the day.

                They did travel together, though very rarely, and really only ever to Paris, to see the painting she adored so much, Scotland so that he could finally answer all the questions she had about his accent, and just once to Australia so that he could see where she grew up. By the end of things, he couldn’t imagine living a better life than the one he spent by her side. He _learned_ things – art and history and music and the way the light reflected in her eyes whenever she laughed at some magic he did. She never believed in it, not really, he could tell, but she let him have his fun up until the day her tumor got the better of her.

                There was still magic in the world, of course, but not so much of it, once she was gone. It took some time to remember that he still had to go on, that his life wasn’t ending, that it never would. He would be, for the most part, alone, until the words stopped turning. Longer than that, maybe. His life would carry on forever, he’d just been foolish enough to believe, for a few years, that maybe hers would, too, that he wasn’t the only one with a forever ahead of him

                **(** _and, really, he wasn’t. the life they’d lived would go on forever, in his memories and in his heart. the only difference was that their combined forever was so much shorter than the one that belonged only to him. the infinity that laid before him was so much smaller than the one he’d watched fade away._ **)**

                Times passed where he forgot magic for years or used only magic for an equal number of days, but she was always with him, in a way. Magic kept a part of her close, more than the memories ever could. The inside of his wrist was still dark from ink even after a hundred lifetimes, the star and spirals and lines all but burned into his skin with the power from the memory of her. Since that day in the Spanish café, he didn’t have the heart to let go of it, not unless he was covering it with his magic so that she wouldn’t ask questions. All the time they spent apart, all the years that had passed since she faded from his life and the world, the ink put there by her hand stayed with him. And, maybe, it made missing her hurt just a little less.


End file.
